A Sixpence Song
by Whoops-C
Summary: Keith writes poems in a notebook, a hobby that he rarely partakes in. It's strange imagining a brooding, dark-haired teen writing poems about flowers and feelings, but then again… "Oh what do you know, dropout?" "We can't let him stay, he's Galran! Who knows what he'll do!" "What a freak." Maybe it's not difficult to imagine him doing that after all. The Notebook on the Bed sequel
1. Chapter 1

***Crawls out of a trash can in time for Klangst week on Tumblr* Anyway howdy y'all, what'd I miss**

 **Again, I'm so sorry for skimping on The Strength of Broken Glass and some other stories...school's a bitch.**

 **But have some Klance hurt and enjoy!**

It started in a place where you'd expect demons to rise out of, not love.

(Then again, isn't love a demon in itself?)

"Nope, no what the fuck." Keith scribbles out the words, black graphite covering the scratched letters on the yellowing paper. "Stupid, edgy emo chunk of-" He crumbles up the page and chucks it at the wastebasket on the other end of the porch, missing by a mile. An impressive mountain of similarly crumpled sheets lay scattered on that side of the wooden floor, and if Keith kept this up much longer, he'd get fined for littering.

No, no I wouldn't. Not anymore. He reminds himself. It'd been nearly a year since he'd gotten kicked out, a year since Shiro disappeared. A year since he'd lost his best friend, mentor, brother into space without so much as an explanation from those-those fuckers from the Garrison. Three-hundred-sixty-five days since that utter and complete piece of trash, Iverson, called him to his office to bust a vein at him, and then told him that he could either 'shape up or ship out'. In response, Keith had silently pulled off his Cadet Identification Tag, bearing a small golden star in the corner marking him as an excelled student, and placed in on the desk, before walking stiffly from the room.

Hard to imagine that it was hardly a year since he, a straight-A honor student with promises of becoming one of the world's best Fighter Pilots, had walked out of school with his bags and back turned towards the entrance. He knew he'd caused a stir, among students and public, but he didn't care. Not his problem anymore, the Garrison could deal with the confusion he'd left behind.

He would've cared even less if it hadn't been for something else he was leaving behind.

The skinny kid from Cuba was called Lance. He showed up one day with a goofy smile and a friendly demeanor, the kind that others would tear apart like sharks. Except he was strong, he brushed off the comments and insults with a grin and joke, and became the class clown instead. The one that you laughed with and were exasperated at, but you couldn't hate him. It was so hard to hate him.

If only Keith could hate him. It'd make liking him so much easier.

But what does it mean? His pen is moving again, scratching drily across the paper. He'd need to get a new one soon, but until then he'd push this one to the limit. What does it mean to like, or even love? What does it mean to be able to feel warm with someone, have someone to take the cold away?

Love (v.) - an intense feeling of deep affection

Like (v.) - find agreeable, enjoyable, satisfactory

Just words in a dictionary, so easy to read and make sense of in the head.

But my heart still has questions, what does it feel to love? How do I know when I love? 'Like' is too simple, 'Love' is too strong…is it even love at all?

His next words are invisible, small curling grooves in the paper. His pen is out, and he sighs and aims it at the bin. It's a solid shot, clattering around in the near-empty plastic interior for a bit, as Keith closes his notebook and tucks it back into one of his side packs. With a deep groan, he gets up, stretches, and sets to work picking up the balls of failed ideas and poems and tossing them where they belonged.

Why was he thinking about him, now, of all times? He didn't care about Keith then, he certainly wasn't caring about Keith now. He had friends, a life, and guaranteed place in the world. He didn't even know Keith back at the Garrison, probably didn't care about his existence at all. So why does Keith think about him so much?

Just a silly crush. Just a distraction. He's gone now, and it's for the best. That kid doesn't care about him, why does he care so much?

There's a place on Keith's wall where the wood is beginning to splinter, and a dent is forming there. Sawdust, wood shavings, and small sticks have gathered in a small pile beneath it. Here, Keith punches it almost daily, ranging from as many as only one in passing to enough for the house to shake and the pipes to ease themselves a little looser, right above Keith's bed. It results in bleeding knuckles, and eventually leads to a trip to the store for some gauze and a pair of fingerless gloves, the kind baseball players wear. The cause of that dent? The persistent, gnawing reminder of that kid from school, with his stupid charming smile ( God damn that smile ) his ridiculous jokes ( Screw those jokes ) and his laugh, his chiming, loud laugh that somehow rings as clear as day in Keith's memory when he least needs it.

The laugh is mostly what results in the punching.

The sun was setting in the distance, when he straightens up and stares towards the horizon. It's pretty today, sky touched all colors of bright tangerine to lilac and peach, fading away into a steadily deepening blue-to-indigo. All pastels and glitter, tonight, almost enough to make him feel like it was worth coming here.

This little hut in the middle of a desert was all Keith had left. He managed to buy it back off of some old man's hands by selling his cadet uniform, cheap, to a grateful family for their son. It was hardly enough to afford this place, with it's leaky plumbing and shoddy electricity, but the smiles of the small curly-haired boy and his teary mother made it all worth it, somehow. It springs back fuzzy memories, filled with purple and warm arms around his shoulders.

He didn't remember Mom, of course. She'd left years before he could start remembering, but whatever his Dad remembered, he neglected to say. There aren't any pictures of her in the house, nor any sign of any female having residence in this old shack at all, but she definitely had existed. Old whiskey driven tales had brought mentions of her, and occasionally he'll find Dad passed out on the couch from a hard night shift, mumbling something that sound like a different language, over and over. A name?

It didn't matter. Stomping back inside the house, nothing mattered anymore, as he turns to the bulletin board covered in pinned-up photographs of rock formations and strange glyphs, line graphs printed from the city library ten miles away. Scrabbled handwritten notes, red string webbing it all together like a spider on crack, an occasional red marker note and circle directing attention. To a stranger's eye, it's chaos. To Keith, it's a masterpiece.

He'll find Shiro. He'll figure out what draws him to this trashy place, what keeps him from leaving no matter how many times he tries to go. Until then, nothing is important.

Not even a boy with a stupid laugh.

Love (v.)-to experience a deep sensation of appreciation and affection for a specific topic, object, person, etc.

Ex: She loves him because of his looks. I made garlic knots, does he love them? I love him because of his laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a mistake.

I shouldn't have ever gone into Keith's room in the first place. I never should've read that stupid notebook of his, let myself fall in love. Never let myself get distracted during that fight, never should've gotten Keith captured, never, never, never, never-

"Lance, are you still here?"

I jolt out of my stupor, and turned. It's Shiro, tall, somber, and looking a million years old. He's exhausted, probably hasn't slept since the fight yesterday… was it really only yesterday? An entire era seems to have passed since then.

"Oh. Hey, Shiro." I mumble a reply, attempt a half-assed smile, before turning back to the cryopod in front of me.

Keith is in stasis right now, face locked in an expression of pain. Like someone having a bad dream. The purple fur and ears had melted away, back into his skin, and his eyes had changed back from glowing yellow to his usual violet irises, before we had placed him in the cryopod. It's hard to believe that a little while ago, he had been bearing all the characteristics of a Galran, or a really dedicated furry. Now, he looks like he just took another really bad beating from the training bot.

"Lance." Shiro is talking again, voice edged with fatigue. "You've been here all night. Please, go to sleep."

"Look who's talking." I mutter in reply. It comes out sharper, more venomous than I had intended, but I was too tired to care. I could feel guilty about this in the future, but not now.

Shiro's silent behind me, and for a moment I think that he's left. Instead, he walks forward to sit next to me, cross-legged on the ground in front of the cryopod. In the frosty light, he seems to age another thousand years, bags under his eyes and hard lines of suffering by his lips. Or were those gained by laughter?

For a moment, we're both quiet, staring at the still figure illuminated before us. I barely manage to stifle a yawn. Even Pidge must be asleep by now, I judge. The sleep cycle of the Castle had activated, maybe…five hours? Maybe six by now?

Who knows. Who cares anymore.

"Lance. You need sleep." Shiro is trying again, pleading. "We need to be able to stand against another Galran attack, without Voltron. We need you in shape."

"Well, what about you?" I shoot back. "You look twice as worse as me."

"Be respectful to your elder, Lance." He jokes, a strained grin on his face. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

I turn away to glare at my reflection in the glass. Lit up by the pale blue light, I look like a ghost, with sunken eyes and a bitter look.

"I don't think any of us are, Shiro."

It catches him by surprise, and I enjoy it for a moment. It's not often when you can surprise someone you looked up to, and it brings a brief lull of satisfaction that drains away the moment I look back to Keith's face.

 _Tell him now. There's no better time._

 _No. I don't want to._

 _Coward._ There's a small voice that sneers at me inside my head. _Second-best. Seventh wheel. Useless._

 _Shut up._ I scowl back. But I breath in deeply and steady myself in preparation.

"Hey, Shiro. Can I say something?" It's more of a demand then a request, but he nods.

"Sure, go ahead."

 _Go on._ The voice whispers. _Tell him you want to go home. Tell him you want to run away. Tell him you're afraid._

Instead, I tell him about the notebook. I tell him how I had snuck into Keith's room, stolen the book with intention of blackmail, and left with confused feelings and a scattered mind instead. How Keith had retaliated to my bad response with a cold shoulder and anger, how I let myself get lost in self-pity and get him hurt and stuck on a Galran ship. How I managed to get us both out, how I'd half-supported, half-carried him from the seat, down the ramp, to the hangar, where we were greeted by shocked faces that quickly turned hostile.

Remembering the team's malevolence towards, I immediately felt queasy. Walking off the ramp towards my friends, expecting help, instead receiving looks of loathing and utter malice. Every one of them took stances of self defense, faces contorted in varied expressions of fury and hate. Hunk looked betrayed and worried, but his bayard was raised and held in a tight grip. Pidge looked positively terrifying, hand trembling as though they were ready to launch themselves at me at any moment. Coran's face was blank, devoid of any recognizable emotion, except the eyes, which gleamed with a boiling hatred. Allura, on the contrary, was a tower of barely-bridled rage, eyes flashing, teeth bared, a strange white staff clenched in her whitened knuckles. I never knew fear until that moment.

But the most shocking was Shiro. My old hero, someone who had inspired me to be a pilot and go to the Garrison, looked horribly, painfully vulnerable. Shiro, who we playfully named "Space Dad", who carried Pidge to bed in the wee hours of the morning, who helped Hunk in the kitchen and sparred with Keith when he asked for it, didn't look like a hero anymore. He didn't look like 'The Gladiator' or 'Space Dad', he looked like, like-

A man. And a scared one, at that. Tears were streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking, on the verge of collapse, physically and mentally. It took me a moment to register what he was looking at, and when I did, it was like a blow to the chest.

It hurts someone when they see a person be terrified of someone they consider their brother.

I don't remember clearly what happened next. Only that it involved a lot of angry yelling, some desperate crying, swearing in multiple languages ( I do clearly remember Pidge being able to swear fluently in Latin, Swedish, _and_ Norwegian, and more impressively, Altean ) and finally, finally, being able to convince them to help Keith, to bring him into the cryopod, and then I would answer their questions as thoroughly as I could.

As promised, that's what I did. In front of the cryopod, where I told them how Keith had already changed when I got into the Red Lion, how he had been injured and bleeding, and how I actually had no idea why he was like that. It raised more arguing, yelling, and fighting until I, finally, cracked.

I think those were the most tears I'd ever shed in a long time. And I wasn't a pretty cryer either; if there were tears, there was scrunched, pinked faces, hyperventilating, and snot. The package deal, and it was enough to make them concerned enough to stop it, try to comfort me awkwardly, and, at long last, leave me alone.

My story finished, I turned to Shiro. He looked up, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

I expected to be drilled for more on what happened exactly, if I had noticed any changes in Keith before I had entered the Red Lion cockpit, if maybe there were chemicals that I'd accidentally released when I made the escape, if I was absolutely sure that was Keith, and not an imposter.

Instead, he asked if he could see the notebook. See what exactly Keith had written, if I was okay with it.

Silently, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and showed him pages that I had taken pictures of. He read them quietly, mouth moving to form the words. Smiling at times, sighing at others, and when it was all over, he handed it back, a strange look on his face. Was that a smile? Or a strange grimace of sadness?

"Thanks, Lance." He says, and his voice is remarkably quiet for a man his size.

"Yeah, sure." I reply. Then: "Why'd you want to see it?"

"Because-" He pauses to stretch, before continuing. "I wanted to see...to see if it I could believe it."

Believe it? I told him just then, did he not believe it? Slightly stung, I mumbled those thoughts out loud: "What do you mean, believe it? I just told you."

"Yes, well." He smiles half-heartedly. "I wouldn't doubt your story for a second Lance, except for one part. Keith writing poetry?" And now, a laugh. A real one, albeit short, rises from his belly. A deep 'Ha' of surprise. "I was more ready to see pigs fly."

"Well, we've seen lions fly. So why not?" I chuckled back, now feeling fatigue truly settling in on me. Every bone was turned to lead, and my eyelids were turning heavy. Every limb sagged in their joints.

"You truly love him, don't you?" A soft question permeates through the air, cutting through the fogginess in my head. I consider it, and nod. A part of me wanted to jump in with more, say how I loved Keith from his bad taste in shoes to his stupid mullet, how I wanted to take back all the things I've said about him, to tell him how much I regretted my cold insults, my mistakes, the bitter remarks I made about him behind his back. My heart still stinged, when I remember how I had said 'What do you know, _dropout_?' when we had first arrived here, while then was meant only as a snarky comeback, now felt like a sin heavier than a black hole. I wanted to hear him tell me he loved me, and for me to do the same, for both of us to sing lullabies to each other.

But it didn't come.

Shiro leaves the room, his footsteps echoing through the Castle hallways. He comes back though, and I feel a soft, warm weight settle around my shoulders. I dimly register it as a blanket, before sleep finally catches me.

I sink into a dream, filled with the first chords of a lullaby

* * *

 _Look around, my darling. Look around,_

 _At the luck we bear today._

 _Pastel sunsets, glittering stars,_

 _Can you hear what they have to say?_

 _They whisper my love to you, my darling._

 _Soft like a butterfly's kiss._

 _Don't leave me tonight, my shining star_

 _For surely you will be missed._

 _Stay with me tonight, my darling. Let me hold you close._

 _As a thousand religions rise and fall,_

 _And everyone is morose,_

 _Our love will be our deity, and you will be the priest_

 _At an alter where our love smolders_

 _And our worries are at their least._


	3. Chapter 3

Keith's personal hell is silence.

You wouldn't think this from a boy who'd lived alone for a long time in the middle of nowhere, but there are many things that are unexpected about Keith.

But the desert isn't nearly quite as empty as people would expect. There's lizards that scuttle on the walls at night, distant barks and howls of wild dogs and coyotes on the wind. Owls hoot in the evening and raptors screech in the mornings. And on the rare days when even those are all silent, there's the cheap shitty radio at the top of the metal drawer, tuned only to one of the few channels available to him.

It was country or static, so he took country.

But now, he didn't even have the annoying twanging of guitars or gruff voices singing about beer, girls and trucks to comfort him. There's nothing here but endless darkness and silence, a crushing quiet that sucks any hope out of him. There's nothing for him here but him and his own head, and a million questions that he can't answer, doesn't want to answer, that tear and rip at the edges of his mind, like an itch that he can't scratch.

Distractions come in the form of sinking into memories, good and bad, any one that is clear. He's in his first flight class, riding the adrenaline high of piloting the shaking, bouncing flight simulator, stepping out with pride in his chest and one of the highest scores seen ever in the Garrison. He's thirteen on his first bike, zooming down the street whooping to school, right before he hits a rock and skids nearly a yard on the pavement (there's still a long, striped scar on his leg from that incident). He's watching T.V, some documentary on Mothman, mumbling a goodbye as his dad leaves on an 'errand'. The last time he'd ever see him again.

He bounces back to happier memories, though those are limited. Learning martial arts from Youtube videos and practicing his roundhouse kick in the dormitory alone, while everyone else was out to dinner. Feeling a sense of grim satisfaction in the next memory, when he knocked the front teeth out of that asshole kid who called him a 'no good sonafabitch bastard fag' and his bale gray shoes were stained red. A sensation of mild irritation when Iverson chewed him out for it, put him in detention where he was alone, save for the other kid.

The other kid, of course, was Lance. Sitting in the front corner by the door, tapping and doodling on the desk with his pencil. Keith sat on the opposite side, fidgeting awkwardly with the pen he'd 'borrowed' from Iverson's desk earlier, taking it apart and putting it together again. Over and over, cap, spring, ink cartridge, nib, metal ring, outer case. Outer case, metal ring, nib, ink cartridge, spring, cap.

 _Tap, tap, tap._ Goes Lance's pencil. Keith glances up, and stares. No smile now, instead a rare look of patient serenity. No sign of anger, disappointment, sadness at his situation, but instead an aura of calm. If not for the slow blinks, long fluttering lashes that are the woman's envy, he could be sleeping.

 _Snap._ Keith had accidentally broke the ink cartridge while putting it back in, and now black ink gushed out over the desk, staining his hands, seeping into the cracks of the white linoleum floor. The teacher in charge, a tired, white matron with severe eyes and a hooked nose, glances up at the noise, sighs angrily, and motions towards the bottle of cleaner and paper towels by the window.

Lance snickers softly on the other end of the room, and Keith feels his neck flush with embarrassment and anger. Accompanied, for some reason, by a strain of pleasure.

For once, _he_ made _Lance_ laugh, not the other way around. And Lance didn't even _know_ him, earning a bittersweet victory.

As he mops up the chemical-smelling liquid up the floor, the _tap-tap-tapping_ ensues, except now it's not a simple monotonous pattern. It's seemingly erratic, short clips there, pauses here, and occasionally he would still his hand and go completely still, as if listening, before continuing his tapping.

 _Morse_. Keith realizes, and he nearly wants to laugh. He's talking in Morse, probably to one of his friends by the door. And sure enough, when he looks up at the door, there's that big dude Hunk, the kid that you couldn't hate for the life of you and almost always had to accept hugs from-most of the time you didn't have a choice anyway, the guy had arms like a bear. His hand raps out of sight, on the doorframe, a quiet muted series of thumps that took a keen ear to hear.

Keith watches as Lance listens intently, grins devilishly, and taps back a response. A laugh bubbles in his stomach; for a kid who was made of movement and was hardly still, here he was, able to learn Morse to talk to a friend through the door.

He starts wiping down the desk, scrubbing the ink off. In the few moments since it's release, it was already sticky and hardening, and took a considerable amount of force to remove it. As he moves his hand in circular movements, he listens to the conversation.

 _Im so b-o-r-e-d_ Lance even took the time to add a second's pause between letters, for emphasis. You had to admit, one had to admire the dedication to dramatic flair.

 _Cant do much for you there._ Is Hunk's faint reply. _Movie night?_

 _Uh hell yeah_ Jeez, he even took the time to communicate seemingly trivial thoughts. And for some reason, this makes him seem all the more likeable. He's human, and he communicates this in stupid dorky ways. _Pop the corn!_

Hunk rolls his eyes. _Hows detention_

 _Eh not that bad just me here_. He stops for a moment. _Oh yeah me and keith_

 _Keith_ Hunk blinks in surprise. _You mean top of class keith?_

 _Only one keith i know dude_ Lance smirks. _Man hes even more emo up close_

 _I wouldnt say that fifteen feet away is close lance but whatever you say_

 _Hunk seriously though hes so weird_ Keith's blood seem to chill as he translates this. _Like he just spilled ink everywhere and i think hes staring at me_

 _All the teachers expect more out of him thatd turn me a little weird too tbh_

 _Yeah but like hes so weird_ A brief moment of quiet where he contemplates for a choice of words, and during which Keith increases his attempts, lemony smell of the cleaner stinging his nose as he squeaks the towel against the table. _Like what the hell is up with the haircut? And hes so quiet_

Keith doesn't catch Hunk's response, but he does hear Lance's, despite his attempts to drown it out. _And he hardly talks to anyone. It's like he has no friends_

Pause for Hunk. _Yeah but seriously hes sorta creepy_ Pause for Hunk. _That wouldnt be surprising_ Pause for Hunk. _He always one upping me and it pisses me off. Its bad enough that im barely scraping by but then here comes_ _mister hotshot and suddenly hes teachers shining example. Its all keith this keith that and im sick of it. Everytime iverson says his name i want to barf_

By now Keith was struggling not to shake. It was like being stabbed, except remembering a mishap he had a long time ago with a knife, stab wounds hurt less. When using a sharp enough knife, all you remember about it is that it's cold and everything's dizzy. Now, it felt like the air was a thousand times colder than a knife accident in the warm spring sunlight, and his head reeled violently. The desk, despite having been cleared away of ink several minutes ago, was still suffering Keith's violent scrubbing.

"Keith. Keith Kogane!"

He blinks; the teacher is calling his name. "Yes?"

"You may go." And with her final words, the world around him dissolves back into the eternal inky darkness that was his personal hell.

Of all the memories he could have chosen to relive, it was that one. The one that haunts his dreams and tugs on his brain. But he needed it for the pain, the pain was what reminded him that he was still human, he was alive, he was real. He was still Keith Kogane, ingrate, dropout, excelled student, future fighter pilot, top of the class. Still Keith Kogane, Red Lion Paladin, tired sixteen year old, stupid teen with a crush on a boy, listened to country music. Still here. Still alive. Still real.

He chooses a nicer memory this time, one that's soft and gentle. A lullaby he picked up somewhere, accompanied by soft guitar and warmth. His eyes are closed in this one, all fuzzy splotches of pink behind his eyelids, and he welcomes the feeling.

He doesn't go back to the inky darkness for a long time.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm back...after like a five something month hiatus lmao**

 **Anyway, this is for klangst week. It's horribly off schedule, and I regret not being able to post it on time, but oh well.**

 **This Klance series has taken off a lot more then I expected. Please leave a review about what we should call this saga! Thank you very much!**


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